


Damaged

by Meskeet



Series: The Company of Heroes [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Could be a tag, Dark, Gen, Nightmares, Post Mind-Control, Written Pre-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-04 23:22:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meskeet/pseuds/Meskeet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd thought he'd healed. He thought he wasn't a danger to them, thought it was safe and now....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damaged

**Author's Note:**

> This originally was sorta a follow-up to the Voice Inside of Me, and now it can just be taken as a movie tag if you want. I wouldn't call it spoilery though, simply because this was written quite some time before I saw the movie. Reading Part 1 is no necessary for this fic - you can take it as a movie tag if you like.

"This isn't happening. This can't be happening. This fucking can't be happening, not again," Clint hears a voice murmuring over and over again in his ear, then it hits him like a bolt of lightning hit Franklin. It's _him_. He's the one terrified out of his wits.  
  
He shrinks back into the space he's carved himself out under Coulson's desk, and lets loose another small whimper.  
  
It isn't, it can't, it _shouldn't_ be happening, but for some fucking reason it is. He should be stoic, he should be a strong, comforting face for the others, but all he can do is whimper like a fucking kicked puppy.  
  
Something crashes on the other side of the room and it triggers a memory. He shoves it away quickly, fiercely. He isn't going to face this, not now.  
  
Not ever, if he can help it.  
  
Some part of his mind is mapping out routes that'll let him flee. He'll need to be quick, so Natasha and Steve won't catch him. Then he'll run. He'll run far, far away so that he won't get anyone else killed looking after his sorry ass. He'll run so far that they'll never find him, that he'll never again be used as a weapon against his family.  
  
He turns his face into the wood at the sound of another bump. His hastily rigged construction designed to keep him in is quickly pulverized. The smell of ash curls around his nostrils and he squeezes his eyes shut.  
  
Good. They are going to put him down. He isn't sure why they were going to get Thor to do it, but he has no inclination to complain.  
  
 _You'll kill them, you know. You'll kill them all._  
  
He'd thought he'd healed. He thought he wasn't a danger, thought it was _safe_ and now...  
  
Something lands on his shoulder, a weight that isn't a weight at all. _A hand,_ his brain supplies. It's been a long time since he's had a hand laid on his shoulder, not in anger, but in a gesture of comradeship. The hand isn't clutching or pulling or yanking or doing anything more than resting lightly on his shoulder but he still finds himself trying to get away.  
  
"Clint!"  
  
The voice pierces into him, and he gives a dark laugh. He deserves this, he deserves to be haunted by his fucking ghosts.  
  
"Cockeye, come on. What's-"  
  
 _Ghost, ghost, ghost. Ignore, ignore, ignore._ He holds onto that thought.  
  
"Breathe!"  
  
He obeys because being difficult would be counterproductive at best, and now that the lack of oxygen's been brought to his attention his lungs are screaming for air. He obeys because it's Tony, and Tony's never lied when it really counts, so if the man says he needs to breathe it's probably advisable to obey. But it can't be Tony. It can't be Tony because Tony and Coulson and almost his whole _goddamn life_ had just -  
  
Something pokes into Clint's bruised ribs and his body shudders in reply.  
  
"C'mon, Clint. Look at me."  
  
It's a command this time, not a tip, so Clint naturally doesn't obey. The hand leaves his shoulder and pulls at his chin, tapping until he raises his head. He won't open his eyes though. He can't be forced into that.  
  
"Hey," the tone is so soft, so gentle, that Clint knows it can't be Tony. It can't be Tony because the man would rather tease than nurture, would rather pick at scabbing wounds than let the tension snowball into something else. "You with me?"  
  
Clint clamps his jaws tight around the sob that threatens to pull out of his body. This is cruel, but he deserves it. It feels like Tony, sounds like Tony, but it doesn't act like Tony and there's no way, no fucking way that this-  
  
"C'mon, Cockeye, it's just a nightmare."  
  
A nightmare. It couldn't-  
  
"You know I need you to help me drive Natasha to insanity. Open your eyes."  
  
\- isn't -  
  
"It's alright. I promise. Come on, Clint. Don't act like a sissy."  
  
-possible.  
  
"I promise. _I promise._ "  
  
Is it?  
  
Clint feels his body unravel. He's tired of being ruled by his instincts, so damn tired of running and letting his body dictate what he does. He's exhausted of this constant struggle, this constant continuous checking of making sure he isn't about to snap. The hand that feels like Tony but can't be Tony that brushes on the scar Clint still tries to hide.  
  
Exhausted.  
  
A nightmare. Yeah. It can be a nightmare, he can deal with it. It's nothing more than a nightmare. That's all it is.  
  
Clint opens his eyes.   



End file.
